


Kinder Gods (Long for company)

by Tadaheressin



Series: Stories of Kind Gods [1]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Hunter Gerry, M/M, Monsterfucking, Tentacles, Teratophilia, Transfem characters, Transformation, Transmasc Characters, background jonmartin, bloodborne au, eldritch Micheal, eveyrones trans, pet/master dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28478820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tadaheressin/pseuds/Tadaheressin
Summary: Gerard Keay is a Hunter of the Healing Church, and a devout follower of The Watcher. Always resisting the fall to beasthood, he, like all others, walks a line between monstrosity and humanity. Yet he has drawn the attention of another, a twisting god, and it longs for his company. And now he must contend with another kind of monster.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/ Micheal | The Distortion, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Jonathan Sims | The Archivist/Martin Blackwood
Series: Stories of Kind Gods [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2086041
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	Kinder Gods (Long for company)

“Are we to look above and not wander there might be more? We see the sky, and yet the cosmos may be right above our heads!”

Gerard Keay sunk his greatsword into the hide of a beast, sweaty work clothes still clinging to its foetid skin, a remnant of the man it once was. It spasmed as its organs collapsed under the crushing weight of the weapon, and he dragged it forward through the beasts ribs, obliterating its heart.

His blood sang under the moonlight, sated by the hunt as he leant against the blade, still stuck in the body, and ran his gloved hand down his face. His panting breaths fogged the air in front of him, and with a dull, disheartened thought he knew that his gloves, so thoroughly soaked in lifeblood and viscera, had smeared his pale skin in red. The thick leather kept out rainwater fine, yet even through his overcoat he felt thick drops of what remains of his prey run down his back. 

Finally he straightened up again, snapping the silver shortsword out of the massive scabbard that turned it into a Holy Greatsword, and clipped the scabbard back on his back. He looked left (the streets, flickering torchlight on the lamenting statues and cobblestones) and right (deeper alleys, leading to the sewers, trash and mutant crows) down the alley and, satisfied he was safe for now, blasted the corpse with a bout of flame from his Flamesprayer. Purifying the body of all illness, and he breathed through thick herb-scented cotton rag that served as a face mask.

Many hunters staved off the blood through acting civility in the midst of violence, or religious fervor. Gerard always favored the simple cleansing power of flame, the act of eradication slowing his heart and cooling his fevered passions. From the rooftops he heard the clacking of boots on tiles and, in a flurry of oil-iridescent crow feathers, Gertrude descended.

His old mentor looked on at his work, before nodding once solemnly and removing her beaked plague doctor mask to look him in the eye. “Effective, Gerard. Keeping the call at bay I hope?” Her gaze held no optimism, just steely analysis.

Gerard understood that if she ever suspected him of falling she would execute him, as was her purpose as Hunter of Hunters. He knew the call, but felt it not as keenly this night, the heat of the flame cleaning the feel of it from his skin. “Aye, Gertrude. I’ll not go to the crows tonight. You’re stuck with me a touch longer.” He smirked a bit, his smile reaching his eyes.

Gertrudes smile was more obligatory than anything, a thin dry thing that cared not at all for humor, and she donned her mask again. “We have use for you yet, keep it that way,” she stepped back into the moon soaked streets, “I will be off to see the other Hunters. I fear for some of them. I have already given one to the sky tonight.”

“A pity, though I trust your judgement,” Gerard would light a candle in honor of the lost later tonight, perhaps in the Dream. For now, he set his jaw straight and narrowed his eyes, hazel turned pure amber in the flames. The hunt was not yet done, more beasts would be put down tonight.

Night ended, the moon was setting, almost hidden among the reaching spires of Yharnam as Gerard returned to the Cathedral Ward. While a richer residential district, his work as a Hunter earned him enough to own a modest apartment within the ward, and he cherished what luxuries he could. First, though, he took a detour through a small side street. Only a few houses, and so narrow in some places the walls would brush ones shoulders. Yet still the buildings loomed, locking the alley in permanent shadow, permanently shrouded in a thin cool mist blown in from a lake even farther below. 

Pulling off the withered feather cap and mask as he walked and removing his rag mask, finally able to breath without the heady scent of rosemary incense. He rapped his knuckles once on a familiar door, and there was a flurry of movement from within before it creaked open. Out peaked a round, soft face and a curly mop of ginger hair. Immediately Gerry smiled at the familiar, uncertain and freckled expression of Martin, glad to know the hunt had not reached him.

“I’m not-not working on the night of the hunt, come back-oh, Gerry,” at seeing his friend Martin smiled, “it’s over then?”

Gerry nodded once, and leant against the doorframe casually, “Indeed it is. A quiet one at that, I bet you didn’t even notice it.”

Martin was a sweetblood, a brothel worker who’d been found to have inebriating blood and as such, considered more valuable. Thus he was able to own his own workspace and decide on clients, yet for any sweetblood life wasn’t necessarily better. Many more, proprietary or fervent Yharnamites considered them a disgrace to the Church. And even then, Martin was a Vileblood, those who had been exiled by the Church for some old crime. Gerry preferred to check in on him after every hunt, just in case something had happened. So far, so good.

Martin laughed a bit, “I was perfectly, uh, fine. Just wish I’d stocked up on tea and milk before I’d been locked in.” He took a long look at Gerry’s mangled and soaked clothes and wrinkled his nose, “would you like to come in?”

Gerry raised a hand in soft refusal. “Perhaps this evening, if I’m not already asleep. I’d rather not drip beast guts all over your office.” 

Yet as he turned, Gerry froze in place. A slant of early sunlight hit a house roof, yet instead it twisted and warped in place. Surely a trick of the light, yet how could a simple trick create so distinctly the image of twisting, iridescent tendrils for so brief a moment? And as the Hunter watched this irregularity, he was suddenly struck by a vision of a smiling, beautific face gazing down at him, and he felt so thoroughly seen and, possessed, that he almost turned and ran. Yet in the next moment, it was gone, and he heard the door to Martins home close with the end bit of a goodbye. Perhaps he would request a dose of sedative sometime, to soothe what was surely a fevered mind he had.

Shaken yet stable, Gerry turned to leave and head to his apartment. Once inside (a simple 3 room structure, bedroom, bathroom, dining room) he shrugged off his overcoat, white button down and vest as well as his trousers and boots, setting them on the rim of the laundry tub. Slowly, he checked his now nude body for any wounds he failed to notice. Smears of thin, dried blood interrupted tracks of his pale skin where his eye tattoos didn’t. He had many thin, pinkish scars criss crossing his body, and the two surgery ones on his chest. He smiled, for they were almost healed completely. 

A quick check of his thighs and calves and he was satisfied that he was relatively unharmed. While muscled, his body was composed not of hard lines but rather soft definition, his true strength only evident when flexed in effort. Afterwards, he drew a bath and washed the day off himself. Away went the scent of blood and smoke and burnt meat and instead the scent of soft flowers and vanilla. He then dressed in soft, clean clothes and sank into his small, if soft, bed. Finally, his eyes closed, and as the sun filtered through the spires of Yharnam, he slept.

When he opened his eyes again, it was to a soft, pale poppy blue sky. His head was nestled in a field of poppies, and as he sat up he saw a small house on a hill. He approached slowly, his footsteps muffled by the flowers and grass. The house was single story, a simple rectangle with a few windows and a sagging shingled roof. In front of it stood another unfamiliar face, the Doll.

She curtsied once, her features seeming to slide when he tried to catch them, but he knew her expression to be one of placidity. She wasn’t much for emotion. Stil, Gerry responded with a wave of his own and a quick greeting. He had no need for her services now, but perhaps another night. Well, day now. He entered the house and headed to a nearby carved stone basin.

Aside from the basin, the house was filled with bookshelves, a chest for storage, a work table for his gear, and an altar he had yet to understand. Into the water in the basin he pressed his hand, and even though it was clean, it was as if all the blood he had been soaked in the night before drifted off his skin. Within moments the water was deep red and thick, before it drifted to the bottom and disappeared. Then, Messengers, small malformed creatures of the Dream that fed on blood, rose and offered him their wears in thanks. They were small, pale blue with faces like wounds and moaning, unintelligible voices. 

Gerry took from then a few of the holy blood vials used for healing, and quicksilver, to fuel his flamesprayer. They made him uncomfortable, and he cast his gaze away as he took what he needed. Aside from that, he only had one other wish in the Dream.

Behind the house was a field of graves, stretching as far as the eye could see. Not every Hunter Dreamed this one, only some did after they received the infusion of godsblood, but those who did were less likely to fall to beasthood. Yet every Hunter who fell was remembered here. Who planted the graves was unknown, unless the Doll had lied when he had asked her. Yet they appeared all the same. On many of them there were candles, likely placed by other Dreaming Hunters or the Doll. From within the house Gerry had taken a candle, and solemnly he placed it upon the grave, lighting it with another nearby candle. 

He knelt, and reading the name, saw that it belonged to one Evan Lukas. He didn’t know if this was who Gertrude had put down, but he had no candles of his own. Instead, Gerry decided he would do his best to remember this lost compatriot, as best he could. “May you find your worth in the waking world.” He muttered, as if a soft prayer, “Umbasa.” ‘Umbasa’, a phrase from elsewhere in the world, meaning be at peace.

As he rose, a soft, lightly accented voice spoke from behind him. “Something is different about you, good Hunter. I cannot sense The One Who Watches on you anymore.”

Gerry froze immediately. If the greatest god in the Church’s pantheon had no hold on him, he had no clue what that would mean. All Hunters of the Church bore the mark of The Watcher, in honor of its founder Jonah. “Perhaps you are mistaken. I have stayed faithful,” he showed the tattoos on his knuckles with a blunt, aggrieved expression. 

“No, I am not. You are, brighter. Your outline blurs.” She tilted her head, as if reappraising him.

Gerry ducked his head down and hurried past the Doll, unable to shake the sudden dread that had crawled onto his shoulders and pressed down on him. “I only need rest. I’ll see you when next I dream.” He mumbled again, and stepped forward out across the field of poppies, dissapearing into the fog, to return to the waking world.


End file.
